Butterfly, dreaming
by teabizarre
Summary: John Watson tries to save Sherlock Holmes' life long before it is in danger. Oneshot, AU, psychic!John, pre-SIP.


Butterfly, dreaming

_Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man..._ -Zhuangzi

1.

The interrogation room is small and square, carpeted in rough industrial grey, its walls an off-white shade not off-white enough to look entirely deliberate. There's a small camera blinking red in the corner. Aside from the chairs and the grimy table with its grimy digital recorder, there isn't much else to look at in the room. John thinks that's probably the point.

He scratches his nose and readjusts his bottom on the hard-backed chair he'd been sat on. He'd been marched into this room an interminable time before by Sally Donovan, who was even more irate than usual because she didn't like the crazy ones. John had never thought of himself that way before—as one of the crazy ones—but he can sort of see her point.

Absently he checks the walls for a clock, wishing he'd put on his wristwatch this morning, but he'd been rather distracted when he woke up. He'd barely had time to work his limp into a pair of clean pants before he killed the bastard. Suddenly he wonders where his cane is. He'd definitely taken it when he'd left his tiny flat that morning (his knee always starts up when it's raining; he is going to be one of _those_ veterans) but he can't remember the last time he had it.

Mentally he retraces his footsteps. Did he leave it on the bus? No, it's probably still in the booth he'd sat in at that posh café where he'd waited for James Moriarty. Well, that was too bad—he thinks he might need it again. He wonders if they'll bring it to him if he asks.

The door swings open then and Greg Lestrade comes striding in, Sally Donovan at his heels. He's carrying two coffees and she's carrying a file, all of which goes on the table. They seat themselves; a coffee is pushed toward John; his file is opened. Wordlessly Sally hands Greg a pen as he pats his pockets looking for one.

'John Watson, MD,' Greg says, flipping open a warped blotter.

'Where's your notebook?' John blurts. Greg looks up at him.

'My notebook?'

It's brown, John thinks, calfskin, but of course it hadn't been given to Greg Lestrade yet: that's years to go.

'Nevermind,' John says quickly. He drinks his coffee and feels a little better. The room is cold.

Greg eyes him with suspicion. He looks younger than usual. There's noticeably less grey in his hair, and he's still wearing a wedding band.

'MD,' he repeats, as if there had been no interruption, before rattling off John's address (John's a little startled when he realises it isn't 221B Baker Street), making perfunctory inquiries about his recent return from Afghanistan, and checking that the name they have for his therapist is the correct one.

'Okay,' Greg says finally, and Sally, as if on command, shuts the file she has open in front of her. She hasn't said a word yet, but John has felt her tightening her eyes at him. There's no scoff, not yet, just a kind of belligerent curiosity.

'What happens now?' John asks.

'Well, if you could tell us about your little encounter this morning, that'd be a good place to start,' Greg supplies, bemused and a little angry.

'Right,' John says, nods, and clears his throat. Well, this _is_ why he's here. 'But I think we should go back further. Just a little,' he reassures them (Sally, mostly, who twitches at the prospect of long-windedness). 'Just for context.'

Greg sits back in his chair, face unreadable. It's odd to see him like this, John thinks. He's usually so affable.

'Of course,' he prompts, when John remains silent.

John nods again. 'Okay.'

* * *

John woke slowly, gradually easing into the reality of where he was, and where he'd just been. This was completely unlike his nightmares (which rattled him awake like gunfire). He blinked, confused, until it occurred to him that this wasn't the dream: this was waking up.

He sat up in bed, ploughed at his closed eyes with the backs of his fists, and sighed. He could already feel the ache flaring up in his right leg, though his hand, he noticed, was completely still.

_(You miss it.)_

Well, maybe Ella'd still be pleased for him, John thought, working himself free of his sheets and hobbling into the bathroom—but he doubted it, seeing how she felt about her PTSD diagnosis (accurate). He had a pee, washed his hands, brushed his teeth, combed his hair. He didn't have time for a shower, something he knew he'd regret later, so he dosed up liberally on the bodyspray.

While John could fully appreciate the anti-Axe rhetoric, he still felt like less of a douche wearing it than he did splashing on cologne, so fuck it.

He had a cup of tea before he went out, mostly to deliberate on his course of action. There was only really the one. This was the most pristine moment, as far as he could tell (not always far; it depended on a lot of things and he only half-understood it most of the time anyway). Still, he was a soldier. What if the variables changed at the last moment? He doubted that they would, but it had happened before.

Everything _had_ happened before, actually, but that was a very depressing thought and he swallowed it down with the last of his tea.

Before John left his apartment, he grabbed the Browning from his desk drawer and tucked it firmly in the waistband of his jeans. Then he picked up his cane. He didn't bother locking his door if it was only going to be kicked in later—in fact... And he left it unlatched, so there'd be no need. Whatever happened, he doubted he'd be coming back here, but it'd be less hassle for the landlord.

He walked four blocks to a bus stop, snapping up his collar against the wind and trying not to smirk at that. Inside jokes were just lonely jokes if they hadn't happened yet. John generally tried not to tussle with the philosophy of it all—he just tried to do the right thing, every time, whatever that was, and hoped kismet would factor into it. It sort of had to, didn't it?

It did, John told himself, returning his mobile to his pocket when the bus pulled up. He took a seat at the back and watched London trundle past. It had started to rain, but the sun would be out soon enough—watery, just strong enough to make the rain-wet sidewalks glimmer.

He got off a stop too early because he wasn't sure exactly where he was supposed to go, and spent the next hour jostling through young, trendy crowds. He finally found the café, tucked away beneath the impressive swoop of tall, rearing buildings, and took a seat by the window.

He ordered coffee ('Just a regular coffee, thank you, no, nothing with an actual name,') and waited.

John hated this part. He woke, alien to the present, before acclimating, and then the end crashed him right out of the stratosphere again.

He was halfway through his tiny coffee when a suave black car rolled to a smooth stop in front of the café and a man emerged from its interior: Jim Moriarty. It wasn't his real name, but it was real enough, and _he_ was real enough: short and scrawny and impeccably dressed, his dark hair smoothed back from an expressive face that bordered, strangely, on kind.

He slipped the top button of his dark coat through its corresponding buttonhole, using the time to idly scan the street. His eyes caught on John's before he turned away, ostensibly speaking to his driver.

Here we go, John thought. The hands folded around his cup were as steady as if he'd never been shot; had never woken up in a hospital bed; had never had to face the terrifying prospect of being sent home. He sighed, drained his cup, and was just slipping his money for it (he left a sizeable tip; his room and board were going to be state-sponsored for the foreseeable future) under the saucer when Jim Moriarty ambled into the café, his dark eyes unblinking as he scanned the clientèle.

They settled again on John. Moriarty smiled and tucked his avians into his breast pocket.

'I'll have what he's having,' he stage-whispered to the pretty girl behind the counter, showing her just enough teeth to make her pleasant smile hesitate before continuing up her cheeks.

'Just a regular coffee, nothing with a name,' she said, but he'd already dismissed her. He and John were eyeing each other across the span of four unoccupied tables.

John felt stupid, but he had to attract Moriarty's attention somehow, and glaring at someone who fancied themselves the most dangerous man in London was probably the best, if not the brightest, way.

When Moriarty had been supplied with his coffee, he waved a large denomination note at the girl behind the counter, smiled at her again, and walked over to John, sliding into the booth with bright, deadly interest.

'Jim Moriarty,' he said, extending a hand to John across the table.

'John Watson,' John said, and brought out his gun.

Moriarty's mouth didn't pop O with surprise (_and I would be surprised_): a sneer started, but John shot him before it could get anywhere near his eyes.

The sound of the gun going off was very loud. People screamed and ducked. Moriarty slumped back in his seat, his face slack around a small hole in the middle of his forehead.

John dropped the clip from his gun and laid it next to the weapon on the table. Then he slid from his seat, knelt in the centre of the aisle, and waited.

The waiting really was the worst part.

* * *

2.

There is a bit of a silence. John regrets drinking all that coffee: now he really has to pee.

'The most dangerous man in London?' Greg repeats finally. Sally is silent, but her raised eyebrows speak volumes.

'Yes,' John says. 'He's a criminal mastermind. Or was, I should say. A consulting criminal, that's what he called himself. He orchestrated crimes. Sometimes for money, but mostly just for fun. He got bored,' John adds helpfully, when their faces remain carefully vacant.

'So you woke up this morning thinking you'd shoot "the most dangerous man in London" in the head, in a café, in broad daylight?' Sally asks, her mouth curling in disbelief.

'No,' John says patiently. 'When I woke up this morning I knew I had to kill James Moriarty before he could start playing games with my best friend. Deadly games,' he emphasises, but Sally's eyebrows only inch farther up her forehead.

'You're right about one thing,' Greg says, before Sally has a chance to reply. 'James Moriarty doesn't exist. The man you shot's name is Richard Brook.'

Sally withdraws a picture from the file in front of her and hands it over to John. He gives it a cursory look: he's seen this headshot before.

'This is where it gets complicated.' John sighs and hands the picture back.

* * *

John was exhausted. He'd spent the majority of the night fleeing arrest and having his whole world fall to pieces around him, after all. His shoulder ached, and his leg wasn't far behind. His hand, though, still held steady, but now that frightened him.

This was a war, and in wars, one side generally lost.

He readjusted his weight, being careful not to make any noise. He'd snuck into the deserted, newly-refurbished office building half an hour ago. He'd wanted to get there earlier, but he was just one man and he had to make sure that Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were alright. He hated putting as much faith in Sally Donovan as he had, but there hadn't been any choice.

He picked his scuffed phone out of his pocket and placed it gently on the floor, its screen facing up. It was on silent. There were a bunch of texts and missed calls, but they didn't matter. He'd seen it very clearly, twisting on the floor of that dratted laboratory, whatever the hell had been in the mist hotwiring his brain. He didn't remember the fit he had (the base doctor chalked it up to epilepsy; John hadn't even tried correcting her) but he remembered what he'd seen while he was having it. It had been so vivid, he'd been surprised when he woke up; surprised that those were the dreams.

Maybe _this_ is the dream, he thought idly, but shrugged it off. You could never be sure until it was too late, so John always did his best, every time, and hoped that would be enough. Kismet had to factor into it, right?

John reckoned so.

As strung out as he was, he wasn't surprised that he heard the faint echo of shoes in the stairwell, even though his heart thudded steadily in his ears and the promise of rain condensed all London's midday noises into something tangible. It had to be the sniper, his sniper.

He made no move, however. He had to be absolutely sure, and for that he had to wait. The waiting was always the worst part.

It didn't take very long—or perhaps it took forever. It felt like both. John's neck twitched when his mobile's screen suddenly lit up, bright in the gloom.

_(This is my note.)_

John rolled smoothly into action. There was no painful wobble in his leg as he ghosted from behind the half-built partition, wrapped himself around the door and down the corridor. There was no tremor in his hand as he surprised the sniper, set up in a window, a duffel bag open next to him. Dispatching him wasn't easy but John did it anyway. Whether it was because he had an advantage or whether he had no choice but to succeed, John didn't know—he tried not to think about it too much.

He straightened from the sniper's now prone form, clutching an arm around his now throbbing side.

His call back was answered on the first ring.

'We're safe, it's okay,' John said. He didn't realise until then that he was panting. He massaged his closed eyes. He couldn't help the low, relieved chuckle that shuddered from his exhausted body. 'Did you hear? I warned-'

John heard the click and had a long, clear moment of understanding (_I'm going to burn the heart out of you_) before the shock wave knocked him from his feet and dismantled the buildings around them.

* * *

The relief of finding Mrs Hudson alive, confused, bustling, trusting, the complete and utter relief that she was okay, had drained into a thumping, plaintive headache that made John's eyes water. He wasn't nearly as angry with Sherlock (_you machine_) as he was with himself for buying it, any of it. He knew better, goddamn it. He had literally seen this coming.

Well, that wasn't entirely true, he thought, ducking past a wobbling line of school children. St Bart's picked itself up in front of him. It always sort of started in the middle and even then a lot of detail veered off into the bizarre and the ordinary. But that was the thing, wasn't it? John never could tell how real it was until after, and so he dutifully tracked down the precise and the imprecise and tried his best. If kismet wasn't factoring into this then God help them all.

He was just about to cross the street to the hospital when his mobile rang. He reached for it automatically. When his fingers hit the scuffed plastic, even before he'd scanned the caller ID, he knew who it was, and he knew he'd messed up.

He answered anyway. His heart thundered in his ears.

'I had a dream,' John said, by way of hello, almost startling himself. He'd never admitted any of this aloud before. 'At Baskerville. I just remembered how it ends.'

There wasn't much time. If _he_ suspected...

'Don't worry about Mrs Hudson or Lestrade,' John said, blinking back the sting of tears. His skin felt very hot, his mouth very dry, his hands very steady. 'I managed to warn them. Just as well you lied to me about Mrs Hudson. He was there to fix the...'

But John shook his head. He was babbling.

'It's a brilliant plan.' He wasn't sure why he was whispering. It didn't feel entirely voluntary. 'But it doesn't work. It's not your fault. You did good.'

He picked his eyes up to where St Bart's roof cut along the sky.

'I'm really glad I met you,' he said.

His mobile fell from his left hand. With his right he nosed the Browning in under his left pectoral, underneath his protesting heart. The barrel felt very hard against his chest.

John was pretty sure he didn't feel the shot. He saw a lot of sky. He felt a lot of seeping warmth. His arms trembled.

He waited for the explosion. Waiting was the worst part, but right now he was okay with it. He wasn't sure that you could wait for nothing, but he did, anyway.

And nothing happened.

John's sighed, a long, low sound. He tried to ignore the accompanying gurgle.

_I'll burn the heart out of you_, he thought.

* * *

Lestrade picks up his mug, realises it's empty, and puts it down again.

'Okay,' he says, with the air of a man long resigned to a grim fate. 'Let me get this straight. This man' (he motions vaguely at the picture, which lies atop the file in front of Sally) 'orchestrated a deadly game that either got seventy people killed in a massive explosion, or-'

'Me. And my best friend. He jumped, anyway.' John clears his throat around the sudden tight grip.

'-but none of this has happened yet, of course, because you dreamt all this.'

'Like _Inception_,' Sally put in, only the slight twitching in her cheek undermining her deadpan.

This is why John has never tried helping the police.

'Look, I know what it sounds like,' he says, clipped, 'I do hear myself talking. But-'

'You know what?' Lestrade interrupts him. 'It's fine. It's my fault. We should have called this off a half hour ago.' He gets up and starts gathering the detritus of their conversation. 'Donovan, I want you to get Dr Everett down here-'

'Don't tell me.' John grimaces. 'Dr Everett's a shrink?'

'That she is.' Lestrade gives him a game smile.

'Has it occurred to you that I'm not crazy?'

'Has it occurred to you that you are?' Lestrade counters. Donovan hisses at him reprovingly.

'And if I could prove it?' John says, ignoring her. 'It's evidence you want, isn't it?' John raises his eyebrows at him.

Lestrade actually laughs, but it stops him from leaving. 'Prove it? Prove what, exactly?'

John purses his lips, but there's nothing for it. 'Those suicides,' he says.

* * *

3.

They leave John in the interrogation room for a long time.

He thinks this might be illegal, but judging by Lestrade's facial expression just before he'd stomped from the room, snapping instructions at Donovan she didn't need, protocol was going to get a wide berth for the foreseeable future.

(Not far. John is running blind. It's almost a relief.)

He's escourted to the loo once, and his coffee is filled up twice. The second time Donovan brings him a butty that seems to have died a tragic death at least a week before, but John accepts it gratefully, if not enthusiastically. She doesn't say anything to him, but John can tell she's even warier of him than before. There's nothing more frightening than a crazy person who's right, after all.

He's just finishing the sandwich, wiping his hands and mouth on a paper napkin and trying to find a hitherto unnoticed comfortable way to sit when the door opens and Lestrade reappears. His face looks as grey as his hair. He runs a hand through it before he begins to pace.

'Did you get him?' John asks. For once, the suspense is killing him.

'What, didn't see that, did you?' Lestrade retorts, but without any real sting. John realises that he's frazzled and wonders mildly how Sally is coping.

'No. I only got to the part where I have no other choice-'

'Yes, thanks.'

Lestrade stops, leaning on the back of one of the chairs opposite John. His knuckles are white against the wood.

'He confessed,' he says, after staring at John for a minute. 'Soon as we got him in cuffs. Said he'd been expecting it. He cooperated fully. Sang like a bird. Especially when he found out' (Lestrade's voice blisters and John realises that they seem to forget he's a cop, just like people sometimes forget John's a soldier) 'that his master is dead. Moriarty.' Lestrade spits the name.

'Yes, well,' John says. He _has_ been saying this all along.

'Only there is no Moriarty,' Lestrade says.

'Yes,' John says, 'there was. I spent the whole mo-'

'There's just this cabbie,' Lestrade says, 'Richard Brook, and you.'

John's stomach squirms.

'The serial killer,' Lestrade reiterates, 'a dead man, and you.'

John sees where this is going.

'You're Moriarty,' Lestrade concludes. Not even triumphantly, just tiredly.

'Did he tell you that?'

'Who, the cabbie?'

'No.' John sighs through his grimace. 'Sherlock Holmes.' _Bloody_ Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade's eyebrows falter on his forehead.

'I should have known. I go to all this trouble-' (John finds himself shouting) 'to stop him from having to kill himself, to stop a bunch of people from drying, and all I get for thanks is _I'm Moriarty_.' John laughs.

'Why?' Lestrade challenges him.

'Why what?'

'Go to all the trouble? If you're going to claim you've met Sherlock Holmes, then you'll understand how that's not a strange question.'

John drags his hand over his face. 'I'm his friend.'

Lestrade smirks. 'He doesn't have friends,' he says.

'No,' John agrees. 'He only has one.'

Lestrade watches him a long time before he nods to himself, once. He straightens from his slump.

'We've called Dr Everett,' he says. 'Depending on her assessment-'

'Looney bin or jail,' John supplies.

'Yes.' Lestrade grimaces. 'I'm—sorry. Not sure what about.' He smiles sadly. 'You seem like a good bloke. Good-bye, Dr Watson.'

Lestrade gives him a last look before he slips out the door. John watches him go. Just before the door closes, in a gap no bigger than the width of his hand, in the space of less than two seconds, John sees him. Sherlock watches John watch him, his face unreadable, but then the door closes and John's alone again.

_(I was so alone.)_

John sags in his chair, scratches his watchless wrist, and waits.

Waiting is always the worst part.

* * *

John woke slowly, gradually easing into the reality of where he was, and where he'd just been. This was completely unlike his nightmares (which rattled him awake like gunfire). He blinked, confused, until it occurred to him that this wasn't the dream: this was waking up.

It was lunchtime when John left his therapist's office, having spent an hour avoiding giving any real answers and reading her notes upside down ('trust issues'). He didn't usually take the route through the park, but it was a nice day out and he felt like stretching his legs. He was almost at the road again when he heard someone calling his name and turned around.

Stamford _had_ got fat, but naturally John disagreed with him. They made it through getting coffee without breaching the topic of his being in London, but when they'd sat down and the small talk was running out it started.

John didn't blame Mike. He grimaced around the caffeine and his short answers.

'Can't Harry help?' Mike asked, but it was largely a rhetorical question.

'Yeah, like that's going to happen.' All things considered, it was the short version of a much longer answer.

'I dunno,' Mike said, 'get a flatshare or something?'

John snorted. 'Come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?'

Stamford gave a small smile. 'You're the second person to say that to me today.'

John blinked at Stamford. The lining of his stomach had turned to ice. He could feel his heartbeat speed up, the spittle drying from his mouth. That was the thing with dreams. You never remembered how they started. You only remembered how they ended (_Nobody could be that brilliant_). How they drifted into consciousness or deeper sleep.

But perhaps they never ended, John thought. He'd just have to keep doing his best. Kismet, right?

'Who was the first?' he asked.

* * *

**A/N: I've (probably) taken vast artistic liberties with Britain's due judicial process, for which I can only offer apologies and Benedict Cumberbatch pictures.**

**I tried to circumvent the fact that we're still not exactly sure how Sherlock faked his fall/death by having his non-compliance/John's sniper's death trigger a massive explosion (Moriarty being partial to those). John being who he is (he did wrap his Semtexed self around Moriarty in S1E3, after all), I thought Moriarty might try to thwart any attempts of John's interference with his customary panache for destruction.**


End file.
